


A Watson When You Need One

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accident, Beowulf - Freeform, Child-minding, Dragons, Gen, Toddler, sugar-overdose, unabashed fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John and Mary had not lost their only child?  What would this small Watson be like?  How would this change the lives of everyone else?  An AU based upon my series "The Other Doctor Watson".   This series will follow the same general storyline as TODW, but with the addition of little Ian Watson, picking up after "Boscombe Pond." To read about how John and Mary lost their baby, see "A Price Too High" in that series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter Ian

**Author's Note:**

> This totally pointless bit of fluff was inspired by my two-year-old granddaughter attempting to pronounce the name “Sherlock” and failing most amusingly.

The sudden weight on his leg was the first he noticed that his young charge was up and about. Sherlock tore his attention away from his microscope and peered under the kitchen table to see the little blond head and two little fists settled on his lap. 

“Good morning, Ian,” Sherlock said. The two and a half year old rolled his head back and forth in a lethargic ‘no’. “I see you have inherited your mother’s wake-up skills,” the detective observed wryly.

The tiny shoulders heaved in a sigh much too big for such a little body. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. Ian Watson might wake up like his mother, but he sighed like an exact clone of his father. Sherlock laid a hand on the boy’s head and carefully scooted his chair away from the kitchen table, successfully bringing the child out from beneath it. Ian took this as an invitation and clambered sleepily onto his uncle’s lap. Now Sherlock could no longer reach his microscope. He was trapped. 

It was not an unpleasant trap, however. In the last two years, he had learned a great deal from this remarkable little human. For example, he had learned that the trust of a child was a precious thing that even he was resolved never to take for granted or disappoint. The tousled blond head that rested over his heart had long since made him desire and determine deep inside himself to prove worthy of that trust; to be the sort of man that this little boy believed him to be. It was a feeling he’d never had before in his life, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. The responsibility was enormous and daunting. But it was there, all the same, and he knew it wasn’t going away. He was hooked for life.

Sherlock had been tasked with minding Ian on many occasions in the past two years, but this was the first time he’d been solely responsible for the child for more than a few hours at a time. John and Mary had planned this much-needed getaway weekend for months, only to find at the last minute that Molly was called upon to work overtime and Mrs. Hudson had injured her hip and was incapable of dealing with an active three-year-old. Sherlock had offered his services, and at length was able to convince his friends that he could take care Ian with a bit of help from Mrs. Hudson. He and Ian had had a marvellous time the previous day, playing games, reading books, and sorting through Sherlock’s skull collection. 

“Aren’t you going to speak to me this morning, Ian?” Sherlock inquired, amused.

Ian shook his head. 

“Are you troubled about something?” 

Ian hesitated, then nodded. 

“Had a bad dream, did you?” Sherlock deduced. A great sigh. “Would you care to tell me what it was about?”

Ian pulled a deep breath, then ventured, “Gwendo’s bad.”

In retrospect, Sherlock considered that perhaps Beowulf was inappropriate material for a two-year-old’s bedtime story. Now it was time for damage control. “You’re right, Ian, Grendel was bad. But Beowulf stopped him from hurting anyone else, didn’t he? Now Grendel is gone and can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Dad could beat Gwendo,” Ian maintained.

“Oh, that would be easy for your Dad,” Sherlock agreed heartily. “I’ve seen your Dad defeat creatures much more frightening than Grendel.”

“Cabbies,” Ian nodded knowingly, and Sherlock smirked. He might not, perhaps, have been wise in telling Ian that particular story, but it had been fun.

Ian thought a moment. “You could beat Gwendo, too, Sh’ock,” he generously assured his uncle. 

Sherlock smiled. He had long since reconciled himself to Ian’s slurred mispronunciation of his name, although he did not appreciate the perverse delight that certain people took in it. “Do you think so?” he asked with uncharacteristic modesty.

Ian nodded, then changed the subject abruptly, apparently ready to move on past his nightmare. “When is Mum and Dad comin’ home?”

Sherlock had to stop himself from reflexively correcting the boy’s grammar. ‘His vocabulary is prolific for his age, Sherlock,’ Mary had told him. ‘The grammar and pronunciation will come along in time. Be patient with him.’ Instead, he chose to address apparent memory lapses. “You have asked me this question thirteen times since they left yesterday morning. What has the answer been every time?” he prompted.

“Tea-time tomorrow,” Ian sighed. “That’s for-evo, Unco Sh’ock.”

“No it isn’t. We’ll have such fun, the time will go by like that,” Sherlock snapped fingers encouragingly.

Ian looked up into Sherlock’s face and crinkled his blue eyes in thought. “Is firteen too many times to ask?” he inquired. His uncle’s conscience smote him. How many times had a young Sherlock been scolded for asking too many questions? 

“You can never ask too many questions, Ian. Ask as many questions as you like, as many times as you like,” he assured the child.

Ian rewarded him with a sunny smile that was an exact replica of John’s. He slid down to the floor and held up his hands proudly. “I can count to firteen,” he announced.

“Can you? Well, show me then!” Sherlock encouraged him.

Ian started out quickly, counting off on his fingers. “One-two-free-fo-fife,” he slurred, then slowed down. “Sick, seveh, nate, nine, ten.” Now he had run out of fingers and hesitated. “Twelf, firteen,” he concluded. Sherlock nodded agreeably.

“Very well done, Ian. You did one to ten perfectly. But I believe that if you review your work, you will find that you inadvertently left out a number. Can you think which one it is?”

Ian’s face screwed up in intense thought, then he frowned. “I don’t wike aweven,” he objected.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I don’t blame you,” he intoned. “It’s a troublesome number, but it does serve a purpose. If you skip it, your count will not be accurate.”

“Okay,” Ian nodded. “Unco Sh’ock, when’s breakfast?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock looked at the paper Mary had firmly affixed to his cupboard door with a steak knife. “Feeding you regular meals is on list your Mum gave me. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Cake!” Ian exclaimed, chuckling at his little joke.

“Oh, you’ve been talking to Mycroft again, haven’t you?” Sherlock pretended to sigh. 

“Mum baked a cake for Myc’off, but he didn’ share,” Ian informed him, clearly aggrieved.

“That rascal!” Sherlock declared. “Well, if your Mum had baked me a cake, I would certainly share it with you. However, since, sadly, she did not, you must make a different choice for breakfast.”

“Jam,” the child suggested hopefully.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled at the boy. “On toast, or out of the jar with a spoon?” he asked.

Ian laughed joyfully. “Toast! Mum says on’y on toast!”

“Well, your Mum is always right, isn’t she? Why don’t you sit here and sort out my skull collection while I prepare it?”

Ian sat on the floor by the coffee table, shuffling the different skulls about and naming them. “Mice,” he began, while Sherlock found the bread.

“One is called a mouse,” Sherlock corrected without thinking. “Very good. Try a harder one.”

“Cat,” Ian declared. “Bunny. Fox. Rat.” He piled them on top of each other like blocks and giggled.

“Go and wash now, Ian,” Sherlock told him. “It’s almost ready.” Ian rushed off to the washroom while Sherlock poured a mug of milk and spread jam thickly over the toast.

While Ian sat on one side of the kitchen table and stuffed toast and jam into his mouth, Sherlock sat on the other side, resuming his work with his microscope. A sticky, muffled voice broke the silence. “Can I see?”

Mary’s admonition notwithstanding, Sherlock could not let this error slide without addressing it. “Of course you can see, Ian. You have eyes, haven’t you?” he said dryly.

Ian giggled and put jam-covered hands over his eyes. 

“I believe the question you are reaching for is: ‘May I see?’” his uncle continued.

“MAY I see!” Ian crowed happily. Sherlock grabbed flannel, dampened it, and cleaned the jam from his messy charge. Then he set the excited child on his lap and helped him look into the microscope. 

“Squiggoes!” pronounced Ian, clapping his hands. 

Sherlock’s phone then signalled a text. “Is Papa Gweg,” Ian predicted presciently. And it was. Soon Sherlock was rushing to dress both himself and his nephew to head out to the bank, which Lestrade reported had been mysteriously robbed in the night.

TBC


	2. The Bank Job

He grew irritated before he’d even made his way through the bank lobby and behind the counters. “Why, Lestrade, do you let twenty-six people disturb the evidence before you call me?” he demanded without preamble, aggrieved. Determined to lose no more time, Sherlock became immediately focused on the bank vault, ignoring all distractions, including Lestrade himself.

“Nice to see you, too,” he heard Lestrade mutter under his breath. “Where’s a Watson when you need one?”

“Hi!” Ian yelled happily, appearing at the vault door in his uncle’s wake. “I a Watson!”

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, bringing a toddler to a crime scene?” Donovan exclaimed. “This is no place for a child!” Sherlock ignored her, too.

“Sh’ock needs a ‘sistant,” Ian informed her importantly. 

Lestrade laughed, delighted. “Hey, little man! So you’re Sherlock’s assistant today, are you?” He swung Ian up in the air, and the two giggled together companionably.

“If you’ve finished tossing my assistant about, perhaps you can tell me what happened here,” Sherlock intoned. He would not allow anyone to see that he was relieved by Lestrade’s casual and complete acceptance of Ian’s presence. He noted with grudging gratitude that Lestrade had settled the boy on his shoulders, out of harm’s way. 

"The manager arrived before anyone else this morning and discovered several hundred thousand pounds were missing from the vault. There were some signs of a break-in, but we easily dismissed them as faked.” Lestrade winced a bit as Ian’s fingers dug into his hair for greater stability. “There’s no CCTV of anyone entering or exiting the building since closing last night. Only the night watchman has been here, and he noticed nothing out of the ordinary all night.”

"Are the security cameras at the vault set to record twenty-four hours a day?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“No, only at night,” Donovan supplied. “But the cameras at all the doors are always recording, as well as the ones in the lobby.”

“Where’s the manager?” Sherlock said peremptorily. He ignored the entirely unnecessary introduction, simply staring at the man for several seconds, making his deductions silently before giving a nod and turning away. All was clear to him now. He just needed the evidence.

“Your uncle is a rude one, isn’t he?” he heard Donovan ask Ian behind him. 

“Eweven,” Ian informed her wisely. Sherlock almost laughed aloud at his precocious nephew’s insight, but then suddenly wondered if the perceptive child was referring to Donovan as a troublesome but useful “eleven”, or his uncle? Donovan just looked puzzled.

He had pulled out his magnifying glass and was stepping around the inside of the vault, looking at various points of interest. He ignored the utterly pointless technicians, who were dusting for prints and testing the locks; he ignored the completely nongermane offer to view the security video footage of the night before. Why were all these useless people in his way? Why didn’t they just go away and let him do his job? All the time, he kept one eye out for his young charge, who remained safely on Lestrade’s shoulders. Sherlock had given Ian just three instructions before they arrived: Stay within sight; don’t touch anything; and keep Donovan out of his hair. Lestrade was enforcing the first two rules admirably, and Ian was fulfilling the third requirement by shamelessly flirting with Donovan, to good effect. Sherlock smirked, listening to their exchanges. It might cause great amusement in others that Ian’s inability to form the “l” sound rendered Sherlock’s name into a word they found uncannily appropriate. But that same lack of an “l” turned Donovan’s given name into something very much like “Sigh”, which Sherlock found an entirely apt appellation. 

Finally, his investigation complete, he requested Lestrade take him to the manager’s office suite.

Lestrade and Donovan led the way, the bank manager trailing dejectedly behind. Ian squirmed on the DI’s shoulders, so Lestrade set him on the floor. The boy grabbed two fingers of Sherlock’s hand and trotted importantly along beside him. They all entered the office suite of the manager, and Sherlock froze in the middle of the room, letting go of Ian’s hand, his steepled fingers touching his chin, looking all around him, noting details silently.

“You know, we did search the entire premises thoroughly before you arrived,” Donovan grumbled, affronted. 

He couldn’t bear the pride she was showing in her own stupidity. “Of course you did; and naturally, you were particularly careful to examine this suite, since the manager is the prime suspect. No? Well, then you have, as usual, missed every clue relevant to the case. But what could one expect from morons?” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“Sh’ock!” the military tone of the tiny voice was unmistakable. All eyes turned to Ian, who was standing ramrod straight with his right index finger raised imperiously. “Manners, Sh’ock!” the small Watson admonished.

Donovan snorted with laughter, her indignation instantly diffused. Lestrade smothered a snicker and remarked cheerfully, “Always good to have a Watson along to keep things civil.”

Sherlock frowned at his little nephew, then conceded. “Fine,” he muttered. “My apologies. You’re not morons. Just . . . disadvantaged.” Ian nodded, satisfied that propriety was restored.

In the meantime, the manager had been standing in a state of shock, his mouth working silently. “Wait, what do you mean, the prime suspect?” he objected when he recovered his voice. “I’m the one who reported the robbery!”

Sherlock turned on him sternly. He had no patience with prevarication. “The state of your clothing, particularly your cuffs, indicates that you have lost a great deal of money of late; the state of your hair and nails tell me that you are under a great deal of nervous stress. The condition of your shoes tell me you have been on a ladder this morning, and your present expression tells me that I have deduced these facts with my usual accuracy. Reporting a crime yourself is the oldest dodge in the book. Strangely enough, you have no security cameras in your office or anywhere en route between the vault and your office. The brackets where they had been are still in place, but the cameras have long since been removed. And the security camera for the vault itself stops recording when you open the bank in the morning, obviously on your orders. You’ve been planning this robbery for quite some time, haven’t you?” 

The face of the bank manager had drained of all colour and he sat heavily down in a chair, looking ill. Sherlock smirked at him. Then he swirled around to face Lestrade, annoyed by the delay. How could these people not understand what to do YET? “Get the key to the executive washroom and look in the ceiling panels. You’ll find the money hidden there,” he said, impatiently stating the obvious.

Lestrade gazed at him, paralyzed for a second, then barked to Donovan, “Do it!”

The manager surrendered the key to her with a resigned look on his haggard face. Donovan turned heel and marched from the room, angry to have been shown up by Sherlock again. “Bye, Sigh!” Ian called after her, waving.

Sherlock did not bother with pointless good-byes. He swung Ian up to sit on one arm and strode rapidly out onto the street, grumbling to himself. The case had been too easy, a tremendous waste of his time. Clearly not even a three. He ought not to have come at all. Even Lestrade would certainly have found out the truth, given enough time.

“Was a-mazing!” Ian crowed happily, impressed in spite of the job’s simplicity. Sherlock managed a crooked smile as he hailed a cab, feeling encouraged. Yes, Lestrade was right about one thing. It was good to have a Watson when you needed one.


	3. Of Cars and Worms

As a reward to Ian for conducting himself in such an exemplary manner at the crime scene, Sherlock had taken him to the playground in Paddington Street Gardens for an hour of energetic swinging and sliding and running about. It had ended with both of them collapsing in exhaustion on a park bench, winded and happy.

But during the short trudge back to 221b, Ian had indicated quite loudly that he had apparently had enough. A Watson may be longsuffering; but a Watson at the end of his tether also has a temper. 

“What would your mother say to all this noise?” Sherlock had demanded as he opened the street door and ushered the boy inside. “Do stop this infernal whining!”

Ian, who had been operating on one slice of toast with jam all morning, had shouted, “I want wunch!”

Mrs. Hudson’s door had flown open. “Shame on you, Sherlock. You whine just as much when you’re tired and hungry! Bring him in and I’ll give him something to eat.” With that, she had limped back into her kitchen, Ian in tow.

Sherlock had retreated to his sitting room, allowing his landlady to feed Ian and put him down for a nap on her sofa. He hated to admit even to himself that taking care of a two-year-old was easily the most strenuous activity he’d ever undertaken. He had meant to take advantage of these few free hours to get some serious work done with his microscope. Instead, he had found the sofa beckoning to him irresistibly, and soon he, too, was having a kip.

Now he sat in his armchair, laptop open before him, ostensibly doing some important research on the fibres of various carpeting; but in reality, he was listening with some fascination to his young nephew, sated and rested, playing with his toy vehicles. Each toy apparently had a name and personality of its own, and Ian was running them up and down the sofa with glee. Sherlock understood calling the ambulance “Mum” and the army jeep “Dad”. “Greg” the police car also made sense, as did “Myc” the limousine. What he couldn’t fathom was why the red sports car should be called “Sigh”. Even more puzzling was why the bulldozer was called “Sh’ock.” 

Then he noted with amusement and some alarm that the taxi (called, imaginatively, “Cabbie”) was apparently the brunt of great animosity from the other vehicles. The army jeep ran the taxi over; the bulldozer shoved it off the sofa altogether; the police car escorted it to prison. Sherlock wondered what repercussions his indiscretions might have when John and Mary found out.

The street door opened. Both Ian’s and Sherlock’s heads turned towards the stairs. “Mummy?” Ian asked hopefully.

But Sherlock would know those footsteps anywhere. “No, not your Mum,” he said. “Aunt Molly.” He set his laptop aside and stood with some trepidation. Had John or Mary asked Molly to take Ian away? Had Lestrade called them about his taking a toddler to a crime scene? Or had Mrs. Hudson told them about his delaying Ian’s lunch until he had a meltdown? He set his feet apart and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to defend himself if need be.

But Ian had no worries whatsoever. As soon as Molly appeared in the doorway, he launched himself at her, screeching, “M’y! M’y!” She scooped him up and squeezed him until he squeaked. 

“Hi, my little bear!” she greeted him, and then set to kissing his plump cheeks several times over until he protested loudly.

“No kisses, M’y!” he exclaimed, squirming until she set him down on his feet. Indignantly, he scrubbed at his face with his chubby hands. Sherlock sighed. Such ignominious treatment. And yet, it seemed to him that every female Ian had contact with was determined to humiliate the boy with cute nicknames and caresses.

Molly chuckled. “So, my little bear is too big for kisses, eh? How about . . . tickles?” 

Ian saw the approach of wiggling fingers and shrieked with laughter, rushing to put his uncle between himself and imminent danger. A longsuffering Sherlock, eyes raised to the heavens, stood as an island of sanity amidst chaos as Molly chased Ian around and around him, until at last she caught the child and plopped him on his back on the sofa to tickle him mercilessly, both of them giggling madly.

Breathlessly, Molly kissed the child again and pulled a small package out of her pocket. “Here’s a new one for your collection,” she offered. Ian threw his arms around her and kissed her back, then excitedly began introducing his other vehicles to the new coroner’s wagon called “M’y”. Soon, the unfortunate taxi was being taken to the morgue.

Sherlock sat down, watching Molly closely as she giggled with Ian over his toys. No, she had not been summoned there by John or Mary. She had come of her own volition. Perhaps she assumed Sherlock would not be capable of caring for Ian for such an extended period of time. He felt stung by her lack of confidence in his abilities. And yet, hadn’t he made quite a number of mistakes with the child? What should he do if she insisted on taking him with her? 

“I thought you were working this weekend,” he ventured at last.

She nodded, looking at Ian instead of Sherlock. “I was. I worked a twelve-hour shift yesterday, got home at seven this morning, and slept for eight hours straight. I have to go back first thing in the morning.” She turned her eyes towards him for the first time since she’d arrived. “I was so disappointed about not getting to keep him. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. I hope you don’t mind sharing him for a bit?” she said hesitatingly.

“Of course not,” he said quickly, keeping his relief from showing on his face. If she had to work in the morning, there would be no question of her taking Ian from him tonight. “We were about to have tea. Perhaps you would join us?”

She looked amused. “You’re eating regular meals? Like normal people?”

He shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. “It’s on the list,” he admitted, indicating the paper that was stabbed to his cupboard door with a steak knife. Molly laughed in delight and moved to examine it.

“Haven’t you ever heard of tacks? Or cello-tape?” she asked teasingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That was Mary’s doing. She was most . . . emphatic . . . that I not misplace her instructions for Ian’s care.”

Molly began to read the list with great amusement as Sherlock put on the kettle. “Number one: Keep all swords, harpoons, throwing stars, and other weapons locked up in the cupboard at all times, even when Ian is asleep. Number two: Ditto all poisons, chemicals, and caustic materials. Number three: Give him a healthy breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner in a timely manner or he will get quite stroppy and you’ll deserve the screaming fit he’ll throw. Number four: Naptime is at 2:00. Bedtime is at 8:00. I assure you, you will sincerely regret it if you forget. Number five: Make sure he washes before meals and after playing with the skulls. Number six: Clothing is NOT optional. Sheets do not qualify as garments. Keep Ian clothed, as well. Number seven: Only non-violent crime scenes! No exceptions!” She chuckled in delight.

They sat down to tea and digestives, chatting in a friendly way. Tea-time soon merged into supper-time, and Molly joined the boys as they walked down the street to their favourite Chinese restaurant. Ian crowed with delight over his plate of ‘worms’, turning his nose up at any other offering but noodles. Then it was back to the flat for Ian’s bedtime, and still Molly lingered. Sherlock found he had no desire to ask her to leave, and she was clearly enjoying her time with them. She gave Ian his bath and brushed his teeth while Sherlock built a fire.

“Read Bey-woof, Unco Sh’ock!” Ian demanded sleepily after his bath. 

Molly was alarmed. “Is he saying “Beowulf? Tell me you didn’t read “Beowulf” to a two-year-old!”

Sherlock was defensive. “Only bits of it,” he insisted.

“Bey-woof’s a he-ro like Dad,” Ian informed her seriously. “He beats bad men.”

She snickered. “If your Dad is Beowulf, I supposed that makes Uncle Sherlock Wiglaf, the noble sidekick, doesn’t it?” she suggested, chuckling.

Sherlock frowned at the inference. “Hardly. Anyway, we never got that far in the story. I was saving the dragon for tonight.”

“Dwagon!” Ian agreed happily, forgetting his nightmare of the night before.

“I don’t think so, Ian,” Molly interfered. “Let’s read something a bit tamer, all right?” She rummaged in Ian’s bag of books and produced a Beatrice Potter. Soon Ian was snuggled in her lap, nodding off as she droned on about rabbits in a soothing voice. Sherlock had to admit that, as a bedtime story, “Peter Rabbit” was much more effective than his choice had been—it had taken hours for Ian to settle down enough to sleep last night after the overly exciting tale.

The little boy was soon carried gently to bed, and Sherlock and Molly sat with a last cuppa before the fire. She still seemed in no rush to leave, and he surprised himself with being fine with that. Watching Molly with Ian had shown him something of the deep joy and contentment that comes with peaceful domesticity. He had never had any inclination to such a lifestyle before. Even seeing John and Mary together had stirred no such interest in him—they seemed to him to be unique in their ability to make it work. But Molly, he found himself thinking, made a domestic life look . . . possible. Maybe even . . . nice. Strange—he had known her for years, but it had taken Ian Watson to show him who she really was.

“Good night, Sh’ock,” Molly said when at last she rose to head for home, gently teasing him.

“Good night, M’y,” he returned in amusement. And it occurred to him how well the nickname sounded to him. It was food for thought, indeed.


	4. Sherlock the Psychic

The sound of the street door opening and closing woke him, and he knew he had only seconds to decide what to do. Should he rescue his reputation and sit up immediately, awaking his young charge and possibly causing him distress, perhaps even tears? Or should he prove to be a good uncle and remain as he was, embarrassing though it might prove to be found lying on the sofa cradling a sleeping toddler, who was curled up on his chest? He looked at Ian’s peaceful face on his shoulder and the decision was made on the instant, caring uncle winning out over cold consulting detective.

He could hear John talking to Mrs. Hudson downstairs and Mary’s quick footsteps approaching his open door. He closed his eyes. If Mary thought he was asleep, he might be able to avoid the inevitable cute comments. Her scented soap preceded her as she tiptoed to the sofa, and he resolutely feigned a deep coma. Just as he had expected, she whispered, “Aww, how sweet!” to herself. The unmistakable sound of a camera-phone recording the scene only added to his humiliation.

John soon joined his wife in gawking at them. “Look at our two boys,” Mary murmured to him affectionately. “They wore each other out.”

“Hmm,” grunted her more practical husband at a normal volume. “They’re both alive and appear to be uninjured. That’s a plus.” Trust John to focus on what was more important. “Open your eyes, Sherlock. You’re not fooling anyone.” Sherlock huffed.

Mary bustled off to the kitchen to do inexplicable, domestic things, and John knelt on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, retrieving toys and books and stuffing them into Ian’s backpack. Meanwhile, Ian himself had begun to stir, roused by the sound of his father’s voice. He rubbed his eyes with tiny fists and then focused on the blond head that was just in his line of sight. 

“Dada!” Ian shrieked, instantly wide awake, and hurtled himself off of his uncle and onto John’s back, strangling his father and kicking his legs in an exuberant display of affection. Sherlock winced, his stomach feeling the effects of acting as a launching pad, and sat up with as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances.

John laughed and reached behind him, flipping his son over his head in one smooth motion and dangling him upside down before his face. “What’s this? A ninja? A mountain lion? A capuchin monkey?”

Ian giggled and grabbed John’s ears in both hands. “A ‘sistant!” the boy crowed joyfully.

“An assistant?” John turned his son right-side-up and hugged him. “Uncle Sherlock put you to work, did he?”

This brought Mary back into the room. Sherlock quickly forestalled her inevitable question. “A non-violent crime scene. Money disappeared from a bank vault in the night. Completely safe. Well, so to speak,” he added, suddenly realizing the pun in his statement.

“Mummy!” Ian crowed, launching himself into her waiting arms. “It on’y a free!”

“Only a three? Hardly worth the journey, was it?” Mary chuckled, kissing him. “I’m surprised you wasted your time on it, darling.”

“Gweg say he need a Watson,” Ian explained. “I a Watson!” He was stoically ignoring his mother’s repeated, noisy kisses on his plump cheeks as he spoke.

“Too right you are!” John affirmed. “Kept Uncle Sherlock in line, did you?”

Ian nodded. “Unco Sh’ock eweven,” he said wisely, and Sherlock sighed, hoping he would not have to explain that statement.

He was saved by John’s discovery of Ian’s newest toy. “I see Molly was here,” he observed.

Mary stopped nuzzling Ian. “How do you know?”

“Who else would gift Ian with a coroner’s wagon?” John chuckled.

“She came for tea yesterday,” Sherlock confirmed. “And helped put Ian to bed.”

“Did she then?” Mary grinned suggestively. “Good for Molly!”

“I ate worms,” Ian stated. His mother sobered instantly and glowered at Sherlock.

“Chinese noodles,” he quickly amended. “Ian enjoyed the pretense, however.”

“M’y read ‘bout bunnies,” Ian continued. “She said no Bey-woof.” He seemed determined to get his uncle into trouble.

“Beowulf!” John exclaimed, and “Sherlock! What is wrong with you?” Mary cried at the same time.

He shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. “I only read him bits of it. He enjoyed it.” Now if only Ian would refrain from mentioning the nightmares.

“Bey-woof a he-ro wike you, Dad,” Ian said earnestly. “He beats bad men.”

John raised baleful eyes to Sherlock’s, frowning. Sherlock raised his hands as if warding off a blow. “It was his comparison, not mine!” he protested. “Tell your mum and dad about going to park, Ian,” he prompted, hoping to divert the boy’s attention from more dangerous subjects.

“I wanted to eat,” Ian told them, aggrieved. “An’, Sh’ock got no cake!”

Fortunately, Mary only laughed. “He’s had cake on the brain ever since Mycroft’s birthday. He’ll never forgive the British Government for not sharing his cake! Darling, Mummy will bake you a little cake all your own when we get home.” She put Ian down and began to help John gather the child’s belongings.

“Did he behave?” John asked, sliding board books into Ian’s bag.

“Oh, yes, he is a very well-behaved child,” Sherlock affirmed.

John snorted. “I was talking to Ian,” he chuckled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He’d stepped right into that one.

“Unco Sh’ock a si-kick,” Ian announced grandly.

All eyes turned to him. “What was that?” John asked.

“Unco Sh’ock a si-kick. M’y say so,” Ian repeated insistently.

“A psychic?” Mary asked, bewildered. “Why would Aunt Molly called Uncle Sherlock a psychic?”

John turned to his friend with a raised eyebrow. “Taking up a new hobby, are you? Peering into crystal balls and such? Mind-reading?”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Sherlock lied firmly, determined that the truth would not out.

“I suppose it can seem as if Uncle Sherlock is reading minds when he’s deducing people, Ian. But he can’t really,” Mary explained to her son; but Ian shook his head. 

“No, no!” Ian insisted. “SIIIIII-kick.” He went determinedly to the bookshelf and inerrantly selected Sherlock’s copy of Beowulf. He turned the pages to an illustration of the mighty hero slaying the dragon and handed it to John, who burst into delighted laughter and showed the picture to Mary.

“Oh, SIDE-kick!” Mary crowed happily. “Right! Ian, you’re absolutely right. Your dad is the hero Beowulf, and Uncle Sherlock is his noble sidekick Wiglaf.” 

Sherlock scowled, “I’ll just gather Ian’s clothes from the bedroom, shall I?” he intoned with great dignity, driven from the room by uproarious Watson laughter.

Then the Watsons were at last ready to leave, having thanked Sherlock many times for his willingness to give them their weekend. He pursed his lips in thought as he watched them descend the stairs. He was remembering the difficulty he’d had the day before in persuading Ian to get into a taxi for the ride to the bank and back. Bribes had been necessary, as well as a great many reassurances. He sighed and headed up the stairs to John’s old room and opened the skylight that led to the roof. A strategic exit seemed called for.

“Sherlock! Why is my son suddenly terrified of cabbies?” an enraged John shouted, heavy footsteps storming up the stairs. “Sherlock! You can’t hide forever!”

Nevertheless, he could hide until a father’s outrage subsided. Sherlock slipped out the window and quickly disappeared.


	5. Temper Tantrum

He listened attentively as Mary went over the new, improved, and ever-so-much-longer list of rules concerning Ian’s care and feeding. She was so intent, it was actually quite mesmerizing. He wondered how long she could drone on and on without a rest.

“Of all weeks for Harry to go on a drunk,” she sighed as she finished. He knew she was referring to the fact that Mrs. Hudson was out of town visiting friends and Molly was completely out of the country, attending a pathology conference. She and John had no choice but to leave little Ian with “Uncle Sh’ock”.

“I can still stay home,” Mary mused, more to herself than to Sherlock. “John can handle this intervention alone, can’t he?”

“No,” Sherlock stated frankly. “He can’t.”

Mary frowned at him. “You’re right. It was a disaster last time, wasn’t it? All right, I’m posting this list and going to meet John at the station. He’s at the bank, poor dear, emptying our savings account. Bailing Harry out and getting her into rehab is going to ensure we’ll never be able to retire.”

Sherlock was perplexed. “Why would you want to retire?” he inquired, mystified.

Mary snorted with laughter, and he felt warmed that his words had lightened her mood, however inadvertently. He watched her stab her list of Ian’s rules to his kitchen cupboard in the same location she had used last time he had watched the two-year-old. He noted that this time, rather than an impersonal steak knife, she used her own, prized Italian stiletto switchblade to affix the paper to the wood. He understood the message. He had given that knife to her himself, out of a concern for her safety. Each time he saw that switchblade, he would be reminded that he was actually capable of being thoughtful and caring if he chose. He was determined to do this child-minding thing right this time, to be worthy of her faith in him.

She scooped up her toddler and squeezed him until he squeaked. Then she stood on tip-toe and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Remember, Sweetheart, John and I are entrusting you with all that is most precious to us,” she told him. “Ian, and you. Take care of each other.” And she was gone.

“Well, Ian, what shall we do first?” Sherlock asked his young charge. Ian ignored his uncle, climbing up onto the sofa and sitting ramrod straight, legs straight out in front of him, arms folded across his chest. His blond hair was tousled, his blue eyes were stormy, his face was like thunder. Not for the first time, Sherlock thought, little John. If anyone had ever wanted to know what John Watson had been like as a two-year-old, they had only to look upon the man’s son.

Crouching down before the sofa, Sherlock asked, “What seems to be the trouble, Ian?”

“I angwy, Unco Sh’ock,” Ian informed him sternly.

“Hmm,” his uncle said thoughtfully. “I am familiar with that malady. What do you think we should do about it?”

Ian considered this. “Mummy say not frow fings,” he explained, aggrieved.

“Right. She has often told me the same,” Sherlock agreed solemnly. “What else?”

Ian sighed a very Watson-like sigh. “Mummy say not shout, not hit, not kick, not bite,” he complained.

Sherlock nodded. “It seems we are under similar restrictions, Ian. Although, I imagine you didn’t need the rule forbidding the use of firearms in the flat.”

“Not touch guns,” Ian told him wisely. Sherlock wondered in alarm how this rule had come to be necessary. Suddenly he had a vague understanding of how John must feel whenever the doctor found himself having to disarm a bored consulting detective. He decided it was time for the conversation to change directions.

“What does your mum say you CAN do when you’re angry?” he wanted to know.

“Count ten,” Ian rolled his eyes expressively. Sherlock had not known before that a child this young could be capable of this degree of sarcasm.

The detective hid a smirk. “Right. And do you find this method effective in alleviating angst?” Amazingly perceptive in the face of an adult-sized vocabulary, the toddler shook his head no. “Why not give it a try,” his uncle coaxed.

“Onetwofreefofivesiksevehnatenineten,” the child’s words tumbled out at once. “I angwy!” He picked up the Union Jack pillow and flung it with vitriol across the room. So much for not throwing things!

Sherlock considered that perhaps determining the source of the boy’s anger might give him an idea of how to eliminate the problem. “What is it that makes you feel so angry, Ian?” he inquired as gently as he could.

“Mum and Dad say no Bey-woof!” Ian pouted crossly, recrossing his arms more determinedly over his chest. “I want dwagons!”

“Ah!” The light came on. Last time he had watched Ian, Sherlock had read the first bit of Beowulf to the child as a bedtime story, with disastrous results; Ian had suffered from nightmares all that night. Nevertheless, he had still desired to hear the end of the book, since they had never got to the story of Beowulf fighting the dragon.

“Your mum and dad are quite right, Ian. Remember the bad dreams you had about Grendel? You don’t want that to happen again, do you?”

“I want dwagons!” Ian yelled as loudly as he could. So much for not shouting! Sherlock was impressed with the boy’s lung capacity. Little John, he thought again. And what was next? Hitting, kicking, and biting? This would not do.

“I’m afraid I just cannot accommodate you,” Sherlock said regretfully, rising from his crouch and sitting on the sofa beside the small, irate Watson. 

“You not afwaid, Unco Sh’ock,” Ian contradicted. “You not afwaid of anyfing!”

His uncle smiled, his heart warming. “Quite right. I’m not afraid of anything—except your Mum and Dad!”

Ian was puzzled. “Mum and Dad not scary,” he objected.

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. An outraged John Watson was probably the most terrifying sight he had ever witnessed; but it was as well that little Ian did not know this side of his father. He chose another tack instead.

“Ian, you know that look your mum gets on her face when she’s sad?” he prompted. Ian nodded slowly. “I’m afraid of putting that look on her face. Aren’t you?” Ian reluctantly agreed. “And the look your dad gets when he’s disappointed in you? I’m afraid of doing things that would make him look at me that way. We must both do our best to keep the rules, don’t you think, and keep your parents happy?”

Ian’s military bearing wilted, and he collapsed into Sherlock’s lap in a heap. “I sowwy I make you sad, Sh’ock,” his little, muffled voice said sorrowfully against the detective’s knee.

“You didn’t make me sad, Ian,” his uncle reassured the child, awkwardly patting a shoulder. “I understand your frustration. Perhaps we can come up with a plan to eliminate your consternation.” 

Ian nodded. “Plan,” he agreed sagely.

“I imagine there are many different books with dragons in them that might be more age-appropriate. I believe a trip to the bookshop is called for,” Sherlock announced grandly, and was rewarded with squeals of glee.

000

When they returned from their trek to the local bookshop, it was well past lunchtime; but Ian did not complain. He was busy caressing the dragon on the cover his new book. “Is bedtime yet, Sh’ock?” he asked hopefully as he munched a sandwich and a handful of crisps. 

“Not yet. But perhaps we can start reading after you finish eating. It will be naptime then, according to your mother’s schedule.”

Eagerly, Ian stuffed an entire half a sandwich into his mouth. His mouth too full to move, the child was forced to spit the food out again, soggy and half-chewed. It was by far the most disgusting thing Sherlock had ever seen. “I done!” the child announced.

His uncle was willing to concede. “All right, then, let’s get started!” He sat in his leather armchair, and Ian climbed into his lap, dragging the heavy book behind him. 

“Dwagon!” Ian crowed excitedly.

“Now, remember, the dragon doesn’t really come into the story until the later chapters,” Sherlock warned the child again. Ian nodded impatiently. “I patient,” the boy informed him, and he hid a smirk.

And so he began to read: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. . . .”


	6. Where Babies Come From

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. I fear I am doomed to write Ian stories for quite some time. Living with my two-year-old Grandchild means many opportunities of inspiration. This is based on an actual conversation between a two-year-old and a biology student.

He thought the client would never leave. With Mary and John gone to Dublin dealing with Harry’s latest fiasco, Sherlock was tasked with watching two-year-old Ian; and he was determined to get this child-minding thing right this time. 

However, there were still bills to pay. Since Mary had given up her job at the clinic to have a baby, their joint income had decreased considerably; to make up for the shortfall, Sherlock and John now took just about any case that came their way. They could not afford to be picky. Thus, the annoying female client currently ensconced in John’s armchair, daubing at her dry eyes with a crumpled tissue.

“He wouldn’t leave us, Mr. Holmes,” she insisted seriously. “He’s a good man, a good husband. And he will make a wonderful father. Please find him for us, Mr. Holmes. You’re our last hope.”

Sherlock desperately wanted to roll his eyes at this melodrama—only his inner-Mary prevented his being rude. He sighed. “I have the file from the police, Mrs. Dunn. I’ll do my best and let you know. Now, I’m sure you can find your way out.” 

“Bye-bye!” cried Ian, much more polite than his uncle, as the woman walked out and descended the stairs.

“I’ve never seen anyone less worried about a missing husband,” he grumbled to his nephew. “Not one of her expressions matched her words. Why she wants to find him so badly I can’t imagine.”

“She gots a baby in her tummy,” Ian explained to him soberly.

“Very astute observation,” Sherlock commended him. “That would be an adequate reason.” He decided to let the biological inaccuracy slide; Ian couldn’t be expected to know the word ‘uterus’. The detective was actually rather impressed with the child. Mrs. Dunn could not have been much more than five months along—most children would just assume she was a bit on the chunky side. Frowning, he considered how to go about proving that Mrs. Dunn had killed her husband and hidden the body. Motive. . . . He needed to find the motive. . . .

“Mummy say I was in her tummy,” Ian informed him.

“Mm-hmm,” his uncle mumbled distractedly. “Your mum is generally a reliable source of information.” But his mind was on Mrs. Dunn’s case. Killing her husband meant a loss in income and security just at a time when mothers generally began having ‘nesting’ instincts. Sherlock flipped through the file on his lap. By all accounts, the man had lived an exemplary life. Kind, generous, well-liked by neighbours and colleagues, attentive to his family and friends, good provider. Kept his bills paid up. Kept his garden neat. Who wouldn’t want to be married to this chap?

“Why, Sh’ock? Why?” Ian was demanding attention. Sherlock pulled himself into the present with some difficulty. The mystery was a simple one—it should only take a matter of minutes to deduce the truth. But Ian must take precedence, mustn’t he? Sherlock did very much want to be the kind of uncle the boy deserved.

“Why what, Ian?” he asked gently.

“Why I was in Mum’s tummy?” the child wanted to know. 

“That’s a very good question, Ian,” Sherlock mused. “Why do humans have such an inefficient and inconvenient method of reproduction? Why can’t they lay eggs like sea turtles—cover them up and walk away. The young ones are well-developed enough to fend for themselves when they hatch. Lay enough of them, and a certain percentage of loss would be acceptable. . . .”

He trailed off, seeing Ian’s perplexed expression, experiencing an unbelievable surge of affection for the child. Acceptable percentage of loss? If the Watsons had had a dozen Ians, the loss of one of them would be entirely unacceptable. 

“Why were you in your mum’s tummy,” he repeated thoughtfully. How to explain this in a tasteful way that would not cause Mary to revoke his uncle privileges for life? “Think of a baby as a sort of a cake,” he began. “You put it in the oven, and then when it’s ready, you take it out again.”

“I not a cake,” Ian scoffed disdainfully.

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, it’s not a perfect metaphor,” he said agreeably. “Did your mum tell you anything about it?”

Ian nodded. “She say it aww Daddy’s fau’t,” he explained.

“Well, I daresay she would know,” his uncle replied in a strangled voice, desperately trying to suppress a smile. “Here, I have a video of your mum with you in her tummy.” He pulled it up on his phone. It was his favourite video—it never failed to put a smile on his face. A nine-months-pregnant Mary had fallen asleep on his couch one day, and upon awakening had found herself unable to get up. 

Ian watched his mum rolling and flailing about on the couch and screeched with laughter. Mary was both laughing and cursing Sherlock roundly for filming her instead of helping her up. At last, she pitched herself over the edge of the couch onto all fours and levered herself up with her arms. 

“Mum’s sayin’ bad words,” Ian crowed with delight. “That funny, Unco Sh’ock!”

“Yes,” Sherlock said dryly. “I imagine that’s your dad’s fault, as well. He has an adverse influence on anyone’s vocabulary. But look at your mum’s tummy, Ian. That’s you in there.”

Ian looked sceptical. “Not,” was his succinct reply.

Sherlock nodded understandingly. “It does seem ludicrous, doesn’t it? A more utterly asinine method of procreation cannot be imagined. Now plants—they have the right idea. No fuss, no messy emotions involved.” He turned off his phone and set it aside.

Ian looked completely at sea. 

“Don’t worry, Ian. By the time you’re old enough to think about starting a family, science ought to have progressed to the point of making invitro fertilization commonplace. Or even better: cloning.” Sherlock grinned at the bemused expression on the small Watson’s face. How many times had he seen that very look on John’s face? Ian could not be more like his father if he had indeed been a clone. But of course, had Mary been dark-haired, or of another race altogether, Ian would look quite different. . . . Oh!

“Ian, you are a true Watson in every way!” the detective exclaimed. “As a conductor of light, your father has nothing on you!” He rummaged through the file and pulled out a picture of the missing man. Mrs. Dunn was, like the Watsons, a blue-eyed blonde of obviously Northern European extraction. So was Mr. Dunn.

“Duck tor?” Ian was puzzled.

“Con-duck-tor. Yes! I’ve been going down quite the wrong path. Mrs. Dunn didn’t need to kill her husband—she only needed to discredit him. She knows it will be obvious the moment her child is born that Mr. Dunn could not have been the father. Mr. Dunn, however, is a good man by all accounts. The sympathies of everyone who knows the couple will fall firmly on the wronged husband. Mrs. Dunn will be looked upon as a heartless cheat and a liar.”

“Dad say not lie,” Ian informed his uncle sternly.

“Quite right! The worst of being slandered by others is that the more one protests one’s innocence, the guiltier one looks. All Mrs. Dunn had to do was cast suspicion upon her husband as a deserter, and she would guarantee that he would look at least as much a cheat and a liar as she is. Somehow she persuaded him to leave town without a word to anyone—perhaps she picked a fight with him. Then, when he’d gone, she played the worried wife; she insisted he would never leave her, implying, of course, that he did! She went to the police, and then she even came to me! When he returns, no matter how innocent his story, he will not be believed. After all, if Mrs. Dunn had known where her husband was, why would she have hired the world’s only consulting detective to try to find him?”

“On’y insulting ‘tective,” Ian nodded wisely, and his uncle snorted with surprised laughter. 

“So where did Mr. Dunn go?” he murmured under his breath, searching through the files. Then he flipped open his laptop and typed away for a while. Ian, thus ignored, lost interest in being a conductor of light and began to play with his cars. 

“There you are!” Sherlock cried at last, and Ian jumped at the sudden noise. Snatching up his phone, the world’s only insulting detective called the Met officer in charge of the Dunn case. “Arrest Mrs. Dunn for filing a false report!” he demanded after explaining who he was and why he was calling. “She never mentioned that her family owns a holiday cottage in the Lake District—if she were truly trying to find him, she’d have looked there first. You will find him at this address,” he rattled it off at almost incomprehensible speed. “Also, if you check his mobile phone records, you will find that he has tried to contact her at least once a day since he disappeared, and she has been refusing his calls.” He abruptly hung up, his day’s work favourably accomplished.

“Imagine!” Sherlock groused to his nephew. “Trying to make me an accomplice to her lies! Me! She will just have to face the consequences of her actions now.”

“That amazing!” the smallest Watson said.


	7. Mycroft Holmes: Child-MInder

Mycroft mounted the steps to 221B Baker Street, files in hand, bracing himself for the inevitable. Sherlock was never happy to see him. There would be an argument. There would be unpleasantness. His only hope was that John or Mary, or perhaps both, would be present to help keep things civil.

“Mycroft! Thank heavens you’re here! This is perfect!” Sherlock cried when his brother opened the door to his flat. Mycroft allowed one eyebrow to slip upwards to register his shock at being thus welcomed. 

“I have a case I’d like you to look into, brother mine,” Mycroft began, holding out the files he was carrying. 

Sherlock waved the important government papers away impatiently. “Never mind that. This is much more important. Mrs. Hudson is away; so is Molly. Lestrade is too busy with a case to be able to help me. I need a responsible adult for this. And you may have many shortcomings, Mycroft, but you are admittedly responsible.”

Mycroft visibly seized hold of his patience with both hands and held on. “What is it, Sherlock?” he sighed.

“Ian will wake up at any moment and I have nothing in the flat to give him for breakfast,” Sherlock explained, pulling on his coat and tying his scarf around his neck. “I should be back before he wakes, but if not, keep in mind that he does not awaken well. He takes after his mother in that way.” He headed down the stairs in a swirl of coat tail.

“Sherlock, I am NOT a child-minder!” Mycroft protested. “Where are the child’s parents?”

“Not here!” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. “And if you allow any harm to come to Ian, I will personally wring your neck.” He was gone in a flash.

It had all happened so quickly, Mycroft had not had time to truly react. Now he was alone in the flat with a sleeping two-year-old. He sank onto the couch and placed his files on the coffee table, feeling as out-of-control as he’d ever been in his life. He had no choice in the matter. He WAS a responsible adult, and leaving a child alone in the flat was not an option. Also, he knew that Sherlock’s threat was not an idle one. And facing John and Mary Watson’s wrath if Ian came to harm was not something Mycroft wanted to contemplate.

 

And then the worst happened. A sleepy two-year-old with tousled blond hair wandered in from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. Mycroft’s heart nearly stopped. What should he do now? He was distinctly uncomfortable with children. Give him a roomful of infuriated terrorists to negotiate with instead, any day! 

“Good afternoon, young man,” he ventured. Courtesy had been an effective defensive shield for him in many situations.

Ian did not respond. He neither spoke to nor looked at Mycroft at all. He simply climbed silently up into the lap of the British Government and leaned against his chest with a sigh. Mycroft sat frozen in place, his arms wide apart as he considered what to do with his hands. He looked down in dismay at his shirtfront. He could almost feel the wrinkles settling into his immaculate clothing and the razor-sharp creases in his trousers melting away. 

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable back in bed, Ian,” he suggested. Ian’s head moved back and forth in a negative motion. Well, there was nothing he could do then about this assault on his appearance. He settled his hands at his sides and waited for what might come next.

Eventually, Ian seemed to wake up a bit. He tipped his little head back and looked up into Mycroft’s face. “Hi, Myc’off,” he greeted his benefactor, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Good morning, Ian,” Mycroft returned with great dignity. “Would you care for some tea?” Surely Sherlock couldn’t actually be out of tea. And it would be an excuse to remove the boy from his lap.

“Not yet,” Ian shook his head again. He looked around. “Where Sh’ock?”

Mycroft hid a smile. He never ceased to be amused by Ian’s mispronunciation of his brother’s name. “He went to the market to get you some breakfast,” he explained. “He’ll be back soon.”

Ian was becoming more animated as he grew more awake. He sat up straight and smiled at Mycroft. “You can eat with us,” he offered generously. “It be fun!”

Mycroft had never before considered a meal to be fun. It was a new concept to him. He regarded Ian’s sunny smile and cheerful blue eyes with interest. No wonder Sherlock so often referred to the child as “little John”. The boy might wake up like his mother, but he was the spitting image of his father.

But now Ian was sniffing, reminiscent not of his father or his mother, but of his uncle ‘Sh’ock’. “You have sweets,” he announced. It was not a question.

“No I don’t,” Mycroft lied reflexively, feeling instantly on the defensive.

“It in you pocket,” Ian informed him.

“You must be smelling something else. I have no sweets on my person,” he assured the child. Mycroft Holmes was an expert at prevarication. He could wend his way expertly around the truth when speaking to diplomats, politicians, and royalty of all cultures and languages. He was no match for Ian Watson.

“Dad say not lie!” he was told sternly by the righteous Ian. Before Mycroft could move, he found a small hand plundering the inside pocket of his suit coat and he was relieved of his slim, expensive, solid silver cigarette case which held, not cigarettes, but jelly babies. It was his attempt at quitting the smoking habit.

“Those are mine!” Mycroft said firmly, taking the case away from the child and putting it back into his pocket. “They aren’t really sweets. They’re more like . . . medicine. For my health.” 

Ian looked sceptical. “Not,” he replied. “Mum say share!”

Mycroft was at a loss. He did actually like the Watsons very much, in spite of himself, and had no desire to undermine the simple but important values they were obviously instilling in their boy. Although lies and greed were a large part of his life in government intrigue, he understood the worth of these virtues in everyday life. They were what made the Watsons decent and admirable people. He sighed in defeat and removed his case from his pocket. He opened it and offered the contents to the child.

To his amazement, Ian carefully removed only one jelly baby and popped it in his mouth, laughing joyously. Mycroft was astonished by the happiness wrought by only one bit of sugar and one tiny gesture of generosity. 

“Thanks, Myc’off!” Ian crowed cheerfully. “Now you eat one!”

Mycroft complied, and found himself smiling for the first time that day. “You’re welcome,” he said, and found really meant it.

“I wike you, Myc’off,” Ian told him.

“Thank you, Ian. I like you, too,” Mycroft said. And oddly enough, it wasn’t a lie.


	8. When Dragons Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this story is based on an actual event. Two-year-olds are a constant source of entertainment and inspiration!

He woke with a start and instantly felt a jolt of adrenaline as he realized what he’d done. Rarely did he sleep this deeply when on a case, and the case of minding Ian Watson was one of the most important cases of his life. But it was also one of the most exhausting. After an unprecedented four days and nights of watching Ian, without the aid of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or anyone of consequence (Mycroft didn’t count!), he had succumbed to his body’s need to rest. And now, Ian was missing!

The little portable cot next to Sherlock’s bed was empty. No one even pretended that Ian couldn’t climb out of it, of course. But normally Sherlock woke up long before his nephew did. Even if he didn’t, he normally awoke instantly at the sound of Ian’s getting up. The flat was ominously silent. A silent two-year-old could not be up to any good! He threw on his dressing gown and hurried to the kitchen.

There was Ian, sitting on the floor, back against the cupboards, with something in his lap. The moment he saw Sherlock, he drew up his knees and held his hands over his prize, shielding it from view. His face was a study of guilt and defiance. And he was chewing as fast as his little jaws could move. A chair pulled up to the counter and the open doors to the upper cabinets spoke eloquently of his morning activities.

“What are you eating, Ian?” Sherlock demanded.

“Bweakfast,” Ian replied through his mouthful of contraband. 

“And what are you hiding in your lap?”

Ian looked in his lap as if noticing the object hidden in it for the first time. “Box,” he said cagily. 

Sherlock sighed. The boy was his mother’s son: he never lied outright, but he was not above deceit. God help us all when he becomes as accomplished at prevarication as his mother, Sherlock thought. “And what is in the box, Ian?” he said wearily.

Ian examined the box for a long moment, then with a quick motion of his hands emptied it into his lap. “Noffing,” he said. 

Sherlock loomed over his nephew and held out an imperious hand. “Give it,” he ordered. Ian gave a sigh worthy of a Watson and handed over the empty box. How many sugar cubes had been in the carton before Ian took it over, Sherlock was not certain. He thought it had perhaps been half-full. Now he saw that Ian was stuffing as many of the sugar cubes from his lap into his mouth as he possibly could.

“Ian, stop it!” he commanded sternly, and Ian startled and dropped his hand. His uncle rarely raised his voice to him. “Spit it out!” Sherlock instructed. Ian let the melted mess fall out of his mouth onto the kitchen tiles. 

“Ian, hasn’t your mother told you that too many sweets will make you ill?” Sherlock asked in a lower tone. 

“Not sweets! Di’monds!” Ian chuckled and jumped to his feet. Racing into the sitting room, he sang out, “I a dwagon! I eat di’monds!” He hurled himself head-long into his father’s armchair, bounced a few times, and then leaped from it to Sherlock’s chair, flapping his arms. “I a dwagon! I can fwy!”

Sherlock shook his head, wondering what the proper antidote to a sugar overdose might be. On to the coffee table Ian leapt, then hurtled onto the couch. “I a dwagon! I am Smaug!” he screeched joyously. 

“Ian, stop jumping about! You’ll hurt yourself!” Sherlock called, following after his young charge.

“I am fie-ah! I am deaf!” Ian cried, bouncing on the couch like a trampoline, waving his hands like wings.

“Apparently,” Sherlock muttered, trying to think how to stop this nonsense without the boy getting hurt. But before he could reach Ian, the child’s foot slipped off the couch, and down he went, striking his forehead on the edge of the coffee table on the way.

There was an electrified second during which neither of them was capable of response. Then Sherlock rushed to Ian’s side just as the boy opened his mouth and lost his treasure trove of “di’monds” to a puddle on the floor. “Ian, are you injured?” he asked, worried.

Ian stared at the vomit on the floor, then put his hand to his head and stared at the blood that clung to his fingers. His eyes grew wide with horror. “Unco Sh’ock! My insides is comin’ out!” he cried, and began to wail.

Sherlock picked Ian up and cradled him in his arms gently. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right,” he assured the child. “Cuts on the head always bleed profusely, but they are rarely deep enough to require stitches. We’ll stop the bleeding and see what we have.” He carried Ian into the loo and held a clean towel to the boy’s head firmly. Ian was too dazed to protest.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he ought to do. What he had said to Ian was true. But the bleeding was not slowing. And had the child become sick because of eating such a lot of sugar on an empty stomach? Or was his head injury serious? Could Ian have concussed himself? Sherlock examined the boy’s pupils, and they looked normal. But, as John was fond of reminding the detective, Sherlock was not a medical expert. He did not trust his own judgement in this area, especially where the well-fare of his nephew was concerned. 

“Come on, Ian. I’m getting dressed and we’re going to your mum’s work,” he said. He preferred going to the clinic rather than to the A & E. Mary had worked there until Ian was born, and still occasionally filled in for absent personnel. They would know Ian there, and Sherlock trusted them with his precious nephew more than he would trust strangers.

“I need a dwagon doctor,” Ian told him.

000

The doctor at the clinic did not keep them waiting long. He examined Ian quickly and then began asking questions. 

“You say he was sick right after the fall? What has he eaten today?” Dr Jenson asked.

Now it was time for Sherlock to prevaricate. There was no way this was not getting back to Mary! “Erm, I hadn’t had time to fix his breakfast before the accident,” he hedged. 

“I ate di’monds,” Ian informed the doctor helpfully. “I a dwagon.”

Doctor Jenson raised his eyebrows. “Diamonds?” he looked pointed at Sherlock. The detective sighed. The truth will out, as Shakespeare so astutely noted. “He was pretending to be a dragon. He found a box of sugar cubes and ate a considerable number of them,” Sherlock admitted. Now what? Would he be reported to the NSPCC? Would the police be called in to arrest him for child neglect? Did Dr Jenson know how to reach Mary?

Dr Jenson laughed. “They do those things, don’t they?” he said jovially. “No harm done. I’m certain he was sick because of the sugar, not the head injury. Ian doesn’t need stitches and he doesn’t have concussion. He’ll be fine, won’t you little dragon?”

Ian shook his head solemnly. “I can’t fwy,” he noted sadly. 

“I advise you not to continue trying,” the doctor affirmed.

000

By the time they returned to the flat, Ian was ravenous. Sherlock found himself feeling grateful to his brother for watching Ian the day before, because the trip to the market ensured a variety of healthy foods to offer the boy. “Eat this banana,” he told his nephew. “It is a rich source of potassium and other nutrients which you lost when you were sick.”

While Ian ate a healthy breakfast, Sherlock cleaned up the sick on the sitting room floor and the sticky mass of half-chewed sugar cubes in the kitchen. It was one of the most unpleasant things he’d ever accomplished and he planned to hold it over his nephew’s head for the rest of the child’s life. And then it was time for a confrontation.

“We need to talk,” he began. Ian looked at him with wide, innocent blue eyes. Sherlock steeled himself to be strong and resist the urge to just let the matter drop. “First of all, according to my research, dragons do not eat diamonds, or any other type of gem. They just like to collect these items, not consume them.”

“What dwagons eat?” Ian wanted to know.

“Many of the same foods we do. Cows, sheep, pigs. So when you are pretending to be a dragon, you must eat nutritious meals.”

“Boring!” Ian declared, disappointed.

Sherlock frowned. “Well, I suppose they eat the occasional human as well, but I don’t advise you to try that,” he admitted.

“Humans taste wike pigs,” Ian informed him seriously, and his uncle stifled a laugh. Sherlock wavered between a sincere desire to find out how the child had come by this information and an acknowledgement that Ian was trying to divert his attention from the subject at hand. 

“Second of all,” he went doggedly on, “your parents have told you many times that eating too much sugar will make you ill. You must refrain from such activity in the future.”

“I not sick,” Ian told him cheerfully. “I fine.”

Sherlock sighed. “You were sick. I just cleaned up the horrifying mess you made.”

“Was coincidence,” Ian assured him. Sherlock’s jaw went slack at this statement, amazed at the child’s vocabulary. But again, he could not afford to be distracted. 

“No, Ian. You were told that too much sugar would make you ill, and you were ill. You cannot refute scientific facts. You must promise me never to do such a thing again,” he said sternly.

Ian looked at his uncle soberly. “I make you sad, Sh’ock?”

Sherlock suppressed a smile. “No, Ian. But I was very concerned about you. I don’t want any harm to come to you.”

Chubby little arms wound around his neck. “I wuv you too, Unco Sh’ock,” Ian said.


	9. Park Specialist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My dad used to read the newspaper to my children when they were toddlers. I believe this is why they are all so socially aware as adults.

HELP. BAKER STREET. NOW. 

If the text message had stopped there, Greg Lestrade might have thought twice before bursting from his office without even a word to his staff. He would certainly have replied and demanded a more complete explanation. But there was one more word to the message.

IAN.

Greg’s race from his office to the parking garage would have impressed any Olympic sprinter. The speed at which he negotiated his BMW through the streets of London towards Baker Street would have been the envy of any race car driver. As he screeched to halt before the residence of Sherlock Holmes, he received a second text, which he opened as he rushed to the door.

Never mind. He’s asleep now. SH

Greg paused to catch his breath, heaving a frustrated sigh. Nevertheless, he went on inside and climbed the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, keeping quiet in deference to Ian’s nap. He knew, of course, that Sherlock had been the sole caretaker of the smallest Watson for five days now and, although he had been checking in regularly by phone, he felt he may as well see how things were going with them in person. He had been too busy with casework to look in on the pair earlier that week, but today was a slow day and he now had a bit of time on his hands.

The flat, never tidy at best, looked like an explosion in a toy factory. Ian had been having an active day, it seemed. Knowing that Ian, like his uncle, rarely wanted to kip in his own bed, Greg went straight to a misshapen lump on the couch and gently looked under the comforter. Only the Union Jack pillow and a plush bear lay there. But as he turned away, Greg spotted the blood smear on the edge of the coffee table. This drew his alarmed eye to the smattering trail of blood drops heading to the loo. A second’s inspection helped lower his levels of anxiety as he realized the blood was hours old. Only a truly severe and immediate crisis would prompt Sherlock to ask for help—whatever the problem, this was not it. Still, Greg followed the trail to the bath, where to his great apprehension he discovered a blood-soaked towel and Ian’s favourite Doctor Who pyjamas stained with rusty red. The fact that the blood was stiff, crusty, and brown did not prevent his growing concern.

He stepped silently to Sherlock’s bedroom door and peered inside. There was Ian, curled up under a blanket, sound asleep. His head was neatly bandaged and his face was swollen and red from recent tears, but his breathing was normal and he looked well-looked-after. Greg sighed with relief at the sight.

Sprawled on the floor with one arm flung over his eyes was the child-minder himself, dressing gown covering a dress shirt and trousers. Greg prodded him with one foot, and Sherlock scowled and muttered, “Go away.” Impatiently, the D.I. grasped two handfuls of dressing gown and hauled the detective to his feet, dragging him from the room before any protest could be made.

“Shh! Don’t wake him!” Greg whispered pre-emptively as Sherlock’s mouth opened to voice his outrage. He dragged Sherlock to the bath and indicated the bloody clothes in the tub. “What happened here?” he demanded imperiously.

Sherlock’s face wrinkled up in an irritable grimace. “I’ve explained this to John and Mary and they’re satisfied that it was an unavoidable accident,” he muttered sullenly. “That’s all you need know.”

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Greg nodded reasonably. “And I’m glad you had the sense to call his parents and explain. But Ian’s the closest thing I have to a grandchild, and I will know what happened here.”

They battled it out with silent glares for some moments; then Sherlock seemed to acknowledge the justice of Greg’s argument and out rattled a rambling tale of diamonds and dragons and doctor’s visits. Gratified that Ian had been seen by a medical professional, Greg did not even try to comprehend the rest of the story, realizing that leaving two children alone together was bound to result in nonsensical chaos of one kind or other.

He patted the obviously guilt-stricken detective reassuringly on the shoulder. “Sounds like you did all the right things, Sherlock. Boys will take tumbles, and all’s well that ends well, eh? But that was this morning. What prompted you to call me for help just now?”

“Obviously, I don’t need any help!” Sherlock deflected crossly.

Greg pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up the text message he had received such a short time before. “Remember this? It brought me barrelling across the city like a wildfire. Care to explain?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I also sent you a retraction, as you may remember.”

“Which I received after I’d already arrived. What’s going on, Sherlock? I have a right to know,” Greg pressed insistently.

Sherlock wandered into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, scattering comforter, pillow, and teddy in all directions. “Fine,” he huffed in a defensive tone. “It’s been a difficult day, all right? The doctor said to keep Ian quiet, but he didn’t want to be quiet. We watched that damned “Thomas the Tank Engine” video eight and a half times.”

Greg snorted with laughter, well familiar with Ian’s choice in videos. “Was it the one where Gordon falls in a ditch and the other trains make fun of him? I love that one!” he teased. “How does that little song go? ‘Silly old Gordon fell in a ditch, fell in a ditch, fell. . . .’”

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock cried in agony, covering his ears. “I’ve had that abysmal song stuck in my head all day. As soon as I delete it, he listens to it again!” Greg chuckled in sympathy.

“And then he decided he wanted his mum and would not stop crying,” Sherlock continued. “He seemed convinced his mum and dad were never coming back. So I called them and let him talk to them.” The detective’s shoulders hunched in a posture of defeat and Greg, having more experience with children, understood.

“Hearing their voices just made him worse,” he guessed, and Sherlock nodded despondently. 

“We’d been getting on so well until today,” he muttered, confused. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I thought I was getting pretty good at this child-minding thing.”

Ian was not the only one who missed his mum and dad, it seemed. Greg’s heart went out to the young man, who was trying so hard but was so far out of his depth. “It’s not your fault, son,” he reassured his friend. “You’ve been doing a splendid job with Ian. But five days seems like life-time to a two-year-old; and, he hurt himself today. It’s only natural for him to want his parents here. It’s no reflection on you.”

Sherlock looked annoyed at Greg’s tone, but the D.I. knew that underneath, his words were appreciated. “Listen,” he continued gently. “You look all done in. I’m sorry I’ve not been able to help out this week, but I’ve got nothing on this afternoon. I’ll watch Ian for a bit and you take a break, yeah? Go upstairs and kip in John’s old room, maybe?”

“I don’t need a break,” Sherlock spat, taking umbrage at the very idea. “You said yourself, I’m doing fine.”

“Of course you are,” Greg soothed. “Of course you are. But not even John or Mary would try to take care of Ian on their own for days on end. They have each other, right? They give each other time to themselves, every day. It’s past time you had a break, mate. Oh,” a grand thought occurred to him. “Here, I have the perfect case for you.” He pulled the information up on his phone.

At this, Sherlock looked like a dog who had just been asked if he wanted to go out for a walk. “A case? Let me see it!” He snatched Greg’s phone from his hands impatiently.

Greg bit back a laugh. “It’s not my division, but I know the D.I. in charge. He sent me this to ask me for some ideas, but without going to the scene, I wasn’t much help.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, studying the case details. “I’ll take care of this for you and be back in few hours.” He flung off his dressing gown and donned his coat and scarf in seconds flat. Then he paused guiltily, looking towards his bedroom. “But Ian. . . .”

“We’ll be fine,” Greg assured him. “I’ve watched him as often as you have, you know. Go on, have a good time.” He propelled the detective out the door firmly.

With Sherlock out of the way, Greg set to work cleaning the blood stains from the furniture and the floor and then scrubbed the bloody towel and pyjamas in the sink until every trace of red was gone. Mary might already know about the accident, but she didn’t need to see the evidence when she came home. After straightening up the sitting room a bit, Greg sank into John’s armchair and picked up the daily newspaper. Ian chose that moment to wander into the room, rubbing his eyes, his hair all on end.

Greg was familiar enough with Ian’s sleep patterns to know better than to bother speaking to the boy. He simply scooped the toddler up and settled him in his lap, cuddling him close. There is nothing in this world, he reflected contentedly, to compare with holding a sleepy child. It was a feeling he had sorely missed for over twenty years, until the day Mary first plopped the new-born Ian into his arms and said, “Here he is, Granddad.” 

Mary, so like Greg’s long-lost Rose, had effectively filled the hole his little daughter had left in his heart; and the Watsons were unusually generous in their ideas of what made up a family. They had warmly let Greg know he was welcome in their home whenever he wished, even before they were married. And when Ian came along, he had found himself taking them up on their offer quite often. Being on call with the Yard made it impossible for him to mind Ian overnight, but he had tried to keep the boy for a few hours several times a month from the beginning, enjoying the experience of watching a child grow up. Now he ran his hand tenderly through the blond hair and smiled at the sleepy face.

Ian bestirred himself at last and looked up into his benefactor’s face. “Hi, Gweg,” he sighed. “Mum and Dad not home.”

“They’ll be home tomorrow,” Greg assured the boy. “But in the meantime, you and I will have fun, won’t we, little man?”

Ian leaned out of Greg’s arms and looked around. “Where Sh’ock?”

“He had to go out on a case,” the D.I. explained.

“He not need a ‘sistant?” Ian asked, concerned.

Greg grinned, thinking of the Inspector who was surely by now devoutly wishing for a Watson to tame Sherlock’s attitude. “I have no doubt he needs an assistant quite badly,” he told Ian. “However, today I need you more than Sherlock does.”

Ian perked up. “You need a Watson?” he asked earnestly.

Greg laughed quietly and squeezed the boy tightly. “Always,” he assured him. “In fact, today, only one Watson will do for me. I need the Watson who is a specialist in playgrounds.”

“I know pwaygrounds!” Ian exclaimed excitedly. “I a speshist!”

“Too right, you are!” Greg replied cheerfully. “You see, here’s the problem. I haven’t seen Paddington Street Gardens in so long, I’m afraid it’s disappeared. I need your help to find it.”

Ian was now on his feet, jumping up and down. “I can help! I can help!” he cried.

Greg put the child’s shoes and jacket on him and they left the flat in no time. Ian approached the D.I.’s familiar car wistfully. “I can make the siren go,” he suggested hopefully.

Greg snorted ruefully. He’d made the mistake once of showing how the siren worked, and Ian made enthusiastic use of it as often as he could. “Not today, little man. We’re going to investigate this disappearance the old fashioned way.”

“Ode fashun?” Ian queried.

“In the old days,” Greg explained, “policemen didn’t have cars. They rode around on horseback.” Ian had never seen a real horse, but he knew full well how to ride horseback. He immediately held his arms up and bounced up and down. 

“Up! Up!” he demanded, and Greg settled the boy on his shoulders. Ian grasped a handful of ear in each hand and directed his faithful steed unerringly to the park, kicking Greg’s chest encouragingly all the way. Together they investigated the playground until both were satisfied.

As dusk fell, the “ode fashuned” conveyance cantered back to Sherlock’s flat carrying the world’s only consulting playground specialist. Greg fed Ian some beans on toast and gave him his bath; and then they sat together in John’s old armchair and he read the newspapers to his young charge until Ian dropped off to sleep. He had just tucked the little one into his portable cot in Sherlock’s room when the world’s only “insulting ‘tective” bounded up the stairs. He looked as renewed as if he’d just taking a refreshing nap. He also looked quite displeased.

“Puzzle solved?” Greg inquired. Sherlock ignored the question. 

“You took Ian to the park!” he snarked in an accusing tone. “After what I told you about what the doctor said!”

The D.I. sighed. “Yeah, I did. I carried him there and back, and we just walked around and sat on the swings. Nothing strenuous about it.”

Sherlock huffed, put out that his sacrifice of listening to the “Silly Old Gordon” song eight times seemed to be for naught. Flinging himself down in his chair facing Greg, he stared pointedly up at the ceiling, deliberately ignoring him. 

“Look, Sherlock,” Greg began gently. “It’s okay to not know everything. When it comes to raising kids, no one has all the answers. They don’t come with a user manual. Parents—and uncles, and granddads—they just have to play it by ear most of the time. It’s not a science, child-minding.”

“How did you learn so much about it?” Sherlock demanded petulantly, although in a more subdued voice.

Greg smiled sadly. “I learned a great deal from my little Rose. Even when she was experiencing the most debilitating headaches, she’d always rather be outside in the open air than cooped up in the house.”

Sherlock had the grace to look abashed at having forgotten Greg’s daughter. After a short silence, he said gruffly, “I defer to your judgement, then.”

“We’re in this together, mate,” Greg reminded him. “We all have a part in Ian’s life, don’t we?”

They smiled at each other. It was another thing in their lives that they had in common; family.


	10. When Detectives Fall

He stifled a yawn, the lack of sleep catching up with him. John and Mary were returning this morning, and Greg had willingly stayed to help Sherlock clean the kitchen and make the flat presentable—there was not much Greg would refuse to do for Mary. It had been so late when they finished that he had been tempted to simply spend the rest of the night in John’s old room; but Ian’s accident that day and the ensuing troubles that followed had eroded Sherlock’s confidence in “this child-minding thing”. If Greg had stayed, it might have reinforced the idea in the younger man’s head that he was not fit to care for Ian on his own. And so he had heroically gone home, arriving with just a scant four hours left to sleep in his own bed before his alarm was due to go off and start him on another day.

But it was not to be. Greg had just put his key in the door of his own flat when he was summoned to investigate a new murder. And then Donovan had called to say that her car was in the shop—could he pick her up on the way to the murder scene? More driving. More work. More people to deal with. Greg was exhausted by the time the sun peeked over the horizon. He handed Donovan the keys to his BMW and requested she drive them back to the Yard while he got a bit of a kip. Soon they were underway, and his weary eyes drifted shut, lulled by the rhythm of the vehicle. He stifled a yawn.

And his mobile began to blare “Helter Skelter”. Wearily he roused himself and pulled it from his jacket pocket.

“Whose ringtone is that?” Donovan demanded, amused.

“It’s Sherlock. Good Lord, what now? It must be important—he never calls; he texts,” Greg told her. “Sherlock? What’s going on?” he demanded, trying not to allow his trepidation to be evident in his tone.

“Gweg?” a tiny, quavering voice answered, and the D.I.’s adrenaline instantly went through the roof. He was suddenly completely awake.

“Ian? What are you doing on Sherlock’s phone?” he asked gently, striving to remain calm.

“Sh’ock faw down. He not wake up.” Ian’s voice trembled with fear. 

Greg trembled with fear, too. “Get to Baker Street. Something’s wrong,” he ordered Donovan sharply, holding the phone away from his face. “And call an ambulance.” He was gratified that she immediately put on the siren and turned around, picking up the radio; he himself clapped the magnetic blue lights onto the roof as they sped to the rescue. “Ian, where are you? Are you still in Sherlock’s flat?”

“Uh huh,” the boy said soberly, sounding a bit steadier now. “Onna stairs. I scared, Gweg.”

Greg kept his voice calm and reassuring. “It’s okay, little man. I’m on my way. I’ll be with you soon. Are you alone? Is there anyone else with you?” He was fighting to keep his growing alarm out of his tone. Whatever else Sherlock was, he was not clumsy and would not have just fallen down and knocked himself out without help. Who had attacked the detective in his own flat? And how? And why?

“Unco Sh’ock,” Ian replied unhelpfully. “I caw ambwance,” he added.

“No! Ian! Stay on the phone with me,” Greg cried, nearly panicked. “Don’t touch any buttons, just stay on the phone with me. Sally has called the ambulance for us. Call for maximum back-up,” he told Donovan, lowering the phone for a minute. “We don’t know what’s going on over there. Could be anything. Need to be prepared for the worst.” Turning back to Ian, he asked carefully, “Is there anyone else in the flat, Ian?”

“No peoples,” Ian said. “Stairs.”

Greg’s fears were not allayed by this assurance. “Did you hear a big noise when Sherlock fell down? An explosion or a gunshot?”

“He’s two years old!” Donovan exclaimed. “How could he know what gunshots sound like?”

“He’s a Watson,” Greg said tersely. “Shush, I’m trying to hear him.”

“No ‘sploshuns. No guns,” Ian informed them wisely. “Sh’ock’s head went bang onna stairs!”

“Is there a fire? Or a funny smell?” the D.I. continued, probing. “Was Sherlock doing an experiment?”

“Uh uh,” Ian slurred. Greg’s heart still beat with terror, but it seemed Ian was in no immediate danger from whatever or whoever had felled his uncle.

“Ian, I need you to be a doctor now, okay? Can you do that?” he prompted, trying to sound encouraging.

“YIke Mum and Dad,” Ian agreed bravely.

“That’s right!” Greg took a deep, steadying breath. “Okay, little man, now put your hand on Sherlock’s chest and see if you can feel his heart beat.”

“He’s two!” Donovan objected again. “How would he know . . . .?”

“He’s a Watson!” Greg growled. “He knows.”

“Sh’ock’s heart beat,” Ian told him. 

“Good! Now see if he’s breathing. Is his chest going up and down?”

“Uh huh,” the child said. “Up ‘n down.”

“Good, good, that’s my best investigator. You’re a good assistant to your uncle,” Greg told him with more reassurance than he felt. “Hang on, we’re almost there. Do you know what made Sherlock fall, Ian?” 

“F’wip,” Ian stated cryptically, sounding distressed.

Greg hesitated. This was a new word in Ian’s vocabulary and he wasn’t certain what the child was trying to say. “He flipped? Is that what you said? What made him flip?”

“Was a van,” Ian told him and began to sob. “It smash-ted!”

Greg’s heart stopped. Donovan looked over at him, her eyes wide with alarm. “Ian, are you outside? Is Sherlock outside the flat? Are you in the street?”

“I inside,” Ian sniffed. “Sh’ock inside.”

“But he was hit by a van? Where’s the van?”

“Onna stairs,” he was told. Greg turned panicked eyes to Donovan’s. 

“Call in the fire department, too. And hurry!”

000

Not ten minutes later . . . .

“He’s still not answering the phone. It goes straight to voice mail,” John muttered, looking down at his mobile as they made their way out of the Baker Street Tube Station. Sherlock never ignored his phone. Why would he not answer? John tried to quell his growing concern.

“I’m sure they’re fine.” Mary was holding his arm to guide him since he wasn’t looking where he was going. “Greg texted last night and said all was well. What could happen in less than twelve hours?”

As she spoke they emerged from the station onto the pavement to the sound of the plaintive wailing of sirens down the street.

“I can think of any number of things,” John said grimly, and they quickened their pace. Dozens of scenarios rushed through the doctor’s head, each of them perfectly plausible and all equally horrifying.

The tangled knot of emergency vehicles which was blocking the street before 221B was both bewildering and alarming, giving them momentary pause as it came into view. They stood still a moment in shocked silence as John noted the fire truck, the ambulance, the three patrol cars, the crime scene van, the special operations vehicle.

“There’s Greg’s car,” John observed, trying to remain calm for Mary’s sake. “I’m sure he has the situation well in hand.”

“I’m sure he does,” his wife shouted back to him over her shoulder as she sprinted towards the chaotic scene; it only took seconds for him to catch up to her. Side by side they raced down Baker Street, dodging through the confusion of onlookers; but as they approached, Donovan appeared on the pavement and began sending the milling crowds of officers and emergency workers on their way. Every vehicle except the ambulance and Greg’s own BMW—blue lights still flashing--was driving off as the bewildered pair arrived at the door of 221B.

“What’s going on?” they both demanded of Donovan in concert. John looked at the door carefully, but saw no signs of foul play.

The bemused officer smiled grimly. “The boss over-reacting is what’s going on, if you want to know the truth,” she informed them, sounding half disgusted and half amused. “Sherlock took a tumble, but everything’s fine in there. Ian’s just fine,” she told them firmly.

“I’m fine, Lestrade!” Sherlock’s peevish voice reached them through the front door, confirming Donovan’s assertion. “I don’t need an ambulance. Make them go away!” John and Mary exchanged relieved smiles, trying to lower their pounding heart rates.

They entered to see their friend sitting awkwardly on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, warding off the two paramedics with an imperious hand. The cut on his head was oozing blood and turning an impressive shade of purple, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. Ian, they saw to their immense relief, was safe in Greg’s protective arms.

“Mummy! Dada!” the little boy cried when he spotted them in the doorway. He struggled to escape Greg’s embrace, and the Inspector gently set the child on the floor to hurtle himself at his parents. 

After ascertaining his son’s well-being, a much calmer John turned to see to his friend’s. “It’s okay, I’m his personal physician,” he informed the paramedics patiently. “I’ll take it from here. You can go on.” They left with undisguised relief, and John dropped to the floor at Sherlock’s side.

“Anything broken?” he asked, feeling better now that he was in control of the situation, and checked the detective out with skilled and gentle hands.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock reiterated, annoyed. “Why does no one believe me?”

“You were knocked out cold for several minutes,” Greg reminded him grimly, information John needed for a diagnosis. 

“You have a concussion,” John informed Sherlock sternly, “and will be on bed rest for a few days. Upstairs you go, now.” Together, John and Greg helped the fuming detective up the stairs to ensconce him in his bed. Mary followed, Ian in her arms, and fetched John’s medical bag. Soon Sherlock’s head was bandaged and he was dosed with a pain reliever.

“We match,” Ian said with some satisfaction, climbing onto the bed beside his uncle. Sure enough, the bandage on his own forehead was in nearly the same location as Sherlock’s own. 

“Hmm. Was it Uncle Sherlock’s turn to play dragon, then?” John asked, amused, remembering the cause of Ian’s accident the day before. “Was Smaug trying to fly down the stairs?”

Ian giggled. “I a dwagon, not Sh’ock!” he protested happily.

Sherlock scowled. “I have a concussion. Everyone needs to go away and leave me in peace,” he grumbled, humiliated.

“If he was unconscious, how did you know to come? And why bring the whole of Scotland Yard with you?” Mary turned to Greg to inquire, and the D.I. told the whole story of Ian’s phone call.

“How he knew what number to push I don’t know, but you have him well-trained,” he finished. “He’s quite a clever lad.”

“I taught him to use my speed dial,” John informed him, pleased. “What do the numbers on my phone do, Ian?”

“One is Mum. Two is Sh’ock. Free is Papa Gweg,” Ian counted off on his fingers.

"Hmm. Good thing the three on Sherlock’s speed dial is the same as yours,” Greg observed. “Although, in truth, you two arrived only moments after I did. And I still haven’t got any straight answers as to what caused the fall in the first place.” He turned to the world’s only consulting detective with a raised eyebrow. “Ian told me you were hit by a van.”

“Was F’wip,” Ian said soberly. “It smashted.”

“Flip?” Greg asked, bewildered.

“Not fwip. F’wip!” Ian insisted. “See, it smashted.” The child pulled the ruins of a toy van from his pocket and displayed it sorrowfully. 

Once John started laughing, he could not stop for a full minute. He blamed his insensitivity on the sheer relief he felt that events had not been as dire as he had expected when they had first arrived on Baker Street. “Phillip,” he managed to gasp out at last. “Phillip, the crime scene van! Anderson gave it to him a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, good lord!” Mary cried, struggling not to laugh as well. “Anderson’s van tossed Sherlock down the stairs! Oh, Ian, you mustn’t leave your toys on the stairs, darling! You see what happens when you do.”

“I sowwy,” Ian said contritely, but was clearly confused by the mixed reactions his parents were displaying.

“Never mind them,” Sherlock told his nephew confidingly. “Well done, calling for help. You did the intelligent thing.”

“Too right,” John agreed, getting his hysteria under control. “You kept your head and stayed calm and did everything as you should have done. You’ll be a first-rate soldier one day.” He swelled with pride as he picked up his precocious son in a warm embrace.

“He’ll be a first-rate doctor, you mean,” Mary teased cheerfully.

“He’ll be a detective,” Sherlock asserted firmly.

“I a Watson,” Ian insisted confidently.

Greg chuckled affectionately. “So, all of the above, then.” 

“An’ a dwagon,” Ian added.


End file.
